The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  Many had been anxious to secure Moore’s prestigious blessing for or against the war, but for the first two years he straddled the fence, leaning distinctly more to the side of opposition but for the most part undecided. In the end, it was not the slaughter in Flanders or even the sinking of the Lusitania that finally led Moore to actively oppose the war; it was the imposition of conscription. Like Russell, Moore saw conscription as a fatal infringement of liberty, a law so wicked that for the first time since his boy preacher days he openly proselytized, passing out anticonscription leaflets and even advising nonreligious C.O.s like Lytton Strachey on effective moral arguments they might use in their defense.

  Once Dorothy became pregnant, though, the war shrank in comparison to the things Moore worried about. He got her a second maid and was always on her arm, watchful for slippery stairs, sudden drops or sharp projections. In the first months of her pregnancy, when she spent her mornings throwing up, he felt terribly guilty — and queerly cheated — that she should have so much pain while he himself had none. Lying beside her, stroking her stomach, he found himself wishing that he could transfer some of the pain to himself. Considering his own girth pressed between his hands, he would insistently ask, But what precisely does it feel like? — I mean to have something not oneself dwelling inside oneself?

  Dorothy did her best to explain, but Moore still couldn’t imagine it, the feeling of something growing inside him, stretching and sleeping, drawing nourishment from his blood. Later, when Dorothy had ballooned out and the baby was furiously kicking, he would watch amazed as it raised eggs under her skin with its traveling foot. And then, cupping his mouth to her stomach, Moore would gently talk to this rambunctious indigestion, this effect of which he was partly the cause, sounding him like his own echo.

  Nicholas was born after a hard labor that had lasted all evening and most of the night. Afterward, Dorothy was bedridden for several weeks with a bad case of hemorrhoids — just one more of the ill effects of pregnancy that Moore found so shocking. The baby, too, gave him several scares, first with a persistent cough, then with several weeks of crying and vomiting in the middle of the night, when it seemed they could do nothing to quiet or comfort him. Moore feared diphtheria and croup. He was always jumping to the worst conclusion, mistaking the golden morning light on the child’s skin for jaundice, persistent crying for colic and a simple rash for measles. At other times the sleeping child would seem too still and Moore would anxiously place his palm on his chest, relieved to feel him still breathing. To him, the infant always seemed too cool or too hot, exhibiting pains that he couldn’t express and emotions that were often unreadable, hiddenness for the child seemingly being as natural as his instinct to suck. Sometimes Moore would just stare at him, seeing in those eyes not his beautiful son but a willful state of nature, a system of flux and even chaos that was always striving for moments of equilibrium, when the child was dry, fed and contented.

  Even more complex was the interplay between the child’s peace and the father’s. Stopping along the lane now, Moore lifted the gauze and peered into the pram with its sour milky smell. Lightly then, he passed his hand over the child’s damp forehead before deciding to remove the thin shawl that covered him. And then, morbidly — unavoidably — Moore felt the pulpy, nearly hairless spot on the crown of the child’s head where the bones of his skull had not yet sutured. Achilles heel, he thought, then reminded of an arctic bird he had heard about whose heart could be stopped by the merest pressure of a finger on its breast.

  Worries of this kind would arise from time to time, but despite them, Moore was generally happy, feeling fortunate to be able to immerse himself in such matters when other fathers were struggling just to survive. Now forty-three, Moore had spent several depressed months that winter, when there had been talk of calling men up to the age of forty-five. But when forty became the cutoff age, his relief quickly turned to guilt. And then one day on King’s Parade his guilt turned to shame when a militant-looking old woman wearing an arm band suddenly presented him with a white feather, saying with acidic sweetness, A feather for the faint-hearted, dear boy.

  In his humiliation, his first instinct was to throttle the old beast, but his second was to think that it was half deserved — that he really was nothing but a coward and a slacker. Moore was still smarting over that humiliation. Conscious of his still boyish face, he was increasingly concerned that his neighbors, many of whom had husbands or loved ones not much younger than he on the front, thought him a slacker. There was no getting away from it. In the streets — everywhere now — there were soldiers. In the stations, there were always wounded soldiers, maimed stumps of lives hobbling or tied on gurneys. In Hall, where Moore still ate two nights every week, officers and old students busily recounted their adventures and talked of all those who would not return. Every few weeks, it seemed, he would hear about the death of some student, neighbor, distant relative or friend of a friend. Loss was one thing, but what bothered him most was how numbing and abstract it all became. With death it seemed he should feel something, something morally immense. But all too often he felt little or nothing, nor could he pretend about it. When a person went away, thought Moore, he was effectively silenced — dead. And when he reappeared? Then he was returned, resuscitated from the dead. You brushed him off and reestablished your mutual life, and so it continued until the next parting.

  One notable exception to this feeling, however, was Wittgenstein. To Moore, it seemed odd that painful memories of a person should sustain and refurbish the memory more than pleasant recollections. Even then, more than two years later, Moore was still smarting from that journey he had made to Norway. And Russell, in his own way, had now further soured the whole episode.

  Russell had still been away lecturing in America when Moore returned from Norway with the notes that Wittgenstein had dictated to him. Moore thought nothing of it. He left the notes with Russell’s housekeeper, along with a message that, if Russell saw the need, he would do his best to explain any sticky points.

  Russell thanked Moore for the notebook, but he never questioned him about it. Moore, for his part, thought nothing of it until one morning, months later, Russell dropped by his office with a letter from Wittgenstein, saying, I thought you might find this of interest.

  Moore was immediately suspicious. Like a solicitor introducing evidence, Russell explained how the letter, written almost two months before on the Russian front, had been forwarded to Keynes, who, with his high-level treasury connections, was able to get mail from belligerents.

  You’re sure the letter is not too personal? asked Moore, smelling trouble.

  Oh, no, no, Russell insisted. Read it, by all means.

  Reluctantly, then, Moore opened the letter. It began on a personal note, then turned testy as Wittgenstein explained various logical points in his notes that Russell had evidently missed, adding, I find it inconceivable that Moore was not able to explain my ideas to you.

  Stunned, Moore looked at Russell. What does he mean, why was I not able to explain. You never asked.

  Russell sucked in his chin. To say I never asked begs the point, don’t you think? I mean, I thought you would have taken more of an interest in discussing the notes than you did. You must have known that they were cryptic and rather insufficient. I presumed that if you really had understood what you transcribed — well, that you would have been more forthcoming in offering your help.

  Moore was popeyed. I said that if you needed my help I would offer what help I could. How could I be any more forthcoming? As for the rest, how was I to know what you would find sufficient? I haven’t been privy to your dealings with Wittgenstein!

  Pacing and laboring then, his arms flopping, Moore erupted: Oh, you do take the cake! Why tell Wittgenstein that you don’t understand? Why, you can bloody well blame Moore! My God, if ever I needed advice on self-serving casuistry I’d come straight to you, Russell! Oh, I would indeed!

  Russell was not upset in the least. On the contrary, he
had come prepared for this tirade. Now he was the cunning jurist cross-examining Moore:

  Did I say that you could not have explained? This conclusion is Wittgenstein’s, not mine necessarily. I merely thought that you deserved to see what Wittgenstein said. Here Russell couldn’t resist a taunt. Of course, if you are willing to sit down and explain some things to me —

  Like hammers, Moore’s hands fell to the desk. Go to hell! Get Wittgenstein to explain! In fact, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no reason why we should even speak! Now, for God’s sake — out! Please!

  But Russell wasn’t about to be driven from Moore’s office. Out he strolled, perfectly composed, with a faint smile on his face. He was halfway down the hall when Moore, in his burgeoning rage, wanted to call him back — not, God knows, to patch things up, but merely to ask why, after so much time, and for no apparent provocation, he should come to start trouble, and moreover to do so over a man who might well be dead. It was astounding. Here was Russell, thought Moore, a man now a major force in England, with more work than five men could have handled. But it still wasn’t enough! For Russell, thought Moore, the world must be at peace! But, by God, in his own life, there must be tumult and discord, quarreling even with the probable dead and those like him who begrudged him nothing. No, Moore didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all.

  That, as far as Moore was concerned, was the end of any personal dealings between them. Despite his support for Russell in his expulsion proceedings, Moore swore to himself that he would henceforth deal with Russell on a strictly professional basis, and then only as a last resort. As for Wittgenstein, Moore did his best to forget him. It was easier this way: like Russell, Moore didn’t expect him to survive the war. Moore had last heard from him in December 1914, in a card Wittgenstein had sent shortly after he had enlisted. It was a brief, friendly, implicitly apologetic note, saying that his feelings for his English friends had not changed because of the war and that he still very much valued Moore’s friendship. Moore meant to reply but, as usual, he procrastinated. He had no idea where Wittgenstein’s letter was now.

  In any case, Nicholas was squealing. Leaning once more into the pram, rummaging through the covers for the teething ring, Moore wondered why he should suddenly be thinking about Wittgenstein. He hadn’t thought of him in several weeks at least — perhaps even a month.

  Dipping swallows were clearing the mosquitoes from the sky as Moore pushed the squeaky pram back up the lane. Slowly, the bronzed air was losing its timbre. Night was falling, a clear, cool, moonless night — perfect for airships.

  Faster squeaked the wheels. The dusk sky dimmed another hue, and then suddenly the swallows were gone and the air was filled with the first flitting bats, looping and skidding down, then flipping up. Whap, whap — gone.

  Darker and darker it grew. Hurry up, Moore, he told himself, but then, sure enough, Nicky started fussing. Pants wet. Hungry.

  There’s my Nicky, soothed Moore, bending over again. There’s my good, good boy …

  Moore’s back was aching by the time he finally got the child settled down. As he came into the homestretch, he saw Dorothy sitting on the stoop of their cottage. She waited until he came through the trellised gate, then she went up and kissed him, saying, Well, I see you’ve had quite a walk. You’re sweating. And you, she mocked, smacking her lips against Nicholas’s cheek as she lifted him from the pram. Phew! We’re all smelly. See how you behave when you’re with your father!

  Moore agreed to do the changing. Unpinning the dirty diaper, he was amazed as ever at the sheer volume and oily black pungency of its contents. With the pin in his mouth and his sleeves rolled up, he went through the procedure with almost surgical precision, holding the child by his crossed feet like a trussed turkey as he wiped and washed, then flung on talc.

  There, Nicholas, he sang. We’re dddddddddone! We’re thrrrrrrrough! We’re cleeeean! He picked the boy up and made a drooling idiot face. B-gob! Brezzzzeechhh. The floor shook as Moore danced him out of the room and handed him to Dorothy, who put him on her breast while Moore expired into his chair and reached for his pipe.

  Later that night, once the baby was asleep, Moore stepped into the garden to give the sky one last look. Odd, but he again found himself thinking of Wittgenstein, wondering if he was alive and what would become of his ideas if he wasn’t. Chilling, thought Moore, how efficiently the world conceals its news, its dead. And then once more he found himself thinking of the goggled zeppelin men, peering down through the polar darkness, nodding and saying Ja, bombe hier! Then Dorothy called back:

  Bill, for the last time! Come to bed!

  Presently, he called, creeping inside. Just let me put a few words in the journal.

  Not a tome, she said. You’ll not be the one waking up at two.

  All right — five minutes.

  Still more fear about the zeppelins — be just my luck. Most of all worry about Nicholas. Children the most vulnerable, it seems, though perhaps his father is just a coward at heart.

  Another walk with Nicky tonight. Responds more to my voice. Smiles. Clutches my hand. A certain rhythm to his babbling, I think; like a hungry bird, the struggling way he takes the sounds from my lips. Three good b.m.’s for him, one for his pater.

  Moore hesitated, then added:

  Thinking about Wittgenstein again. Find I’m still angry at him — hurt, tho’ I know it’s not his fault. Must, in any case, decide what to do. If dead, I suppose I should offer — purely for Wittgenstein’s sake — to help Russell with the notes. If alive, I suppose I should write to him, but I hesitate — what would I say? The shame of it, having nothing after all to say.

  Later that night, not long after the baby’s two o’clock feeding, Moore awoke to talking. It was Dorothy, tossing and mumbling in her sleep:

  No, we mustn’t go there — not Nicholas. Hold the pillow under his head — catch it! Bill!

  Heart pounding, Moore sat up and started to shake her, but then it was over. Mumbling something more, Dorothy pulled his arm around her like a blanket and fell back to sleep. But then Moore had a dream himself. It was all very mixed up, with plummeting bombs and a zeppelin that fell slowly to earth like a planet knocked out of orbit. And then Moore was running with a man who turned out to be the zeppelin commander. The enemy officer was upbraiding him, saying there had been a mistake, an idiotic mistake! Useless charts! The German tore them to pieces. Telescope no good either, nor the sextant. He pitched them into a ditch.

  Then the captain tore off his fur-lined cap, and Moore saw that one of his ears had been shot away, the face ravaged. Moore peered for the longest time into the man’s face before he realized that it was Wittgenstein. Then soldiers were pursuing, and they were by the sea. That helpless feeling as Wittgenstein stared at him: the uselessness of leave-taking. Wittgenstein’s face was draped in darkness, like a lunar eclipse. Moore was trying to smile. And then Wittgenstein turned and dove into the night sea. Churning like a dolphin, he swam to Holland, leaving a broth of shimmering bubbles that stretched clear across the Channel.

  Dorothy was trying to roll Moore over when he awoke.

  I’m all right, mumbled Moore, sitting up. He bounded out of bed.

  Get back in here, Dorothy insisted. What’s the matter?

  Nothing’s the matter. His voice was parched and gruff. I just had a dream. Just a dream. Be right back.

  Moore first checked Nicholas, trembling as he slipped a hand under the little gown, feeling the reassuring heart and warmth, the little stutter of breath. Then Moore shuffled down the hall to his study and wrote in his diary.

  Dream of Wittgenstein. Zeppelins again. At the edge of the sea, Wittgenstein looks at me as if to ask if it’s all right, and I can’t help smiling, as if it were, though I know that it isn’t; then he is swimming in the sea, and I am still on the shore, but unsure, still unsure.

  Must write down what I feel about Wittgenstein.

  Nothing Would Have Happened Had Not …

  SITTI
NG BEHIND a sandbagged trench on the Russian front one morning in the early spring of 1916, Sergeant Wittgenstein of the Austrian Fourth Army was popping lice between his nails and writing in his notebook.

  NOTHING WOULD HAVE HAPPENED …

  Had not the archduke gone home after the bomb exploded,

  Had not the Russians mobilized,

  Had not the English stayed out,

  Had not a shell splinter been in another state of affairs, another geometry;

  Had not I asked Pinsent what kind of bird it was in the tree that day we met,

  Or had the bird alighted somewhere else or not been born,

  Or had a bullet found me first.

  We should have remained in Norway, under Holy Orders.

  Sooner or later,

  What depends on my life? Sad or happy,

  There is only this life, this immediate scheme, which is neither good nor evil,

  Sad nor happy. Then comes Not, the mystery of Not:

  Two nots making an affirmation, a possibility,

  Surrounded by another impinging

  Not, annihilating that possibility.

  The world is all that is the case.